Episode 37

The whispers started subtly at first, a mere rustle of air in the hushed corridors of the old Tooele Insane Asylum. I’d heard the rumors, of course, the hushed tales passed between the few brave souls who still worked its decaying halls. They spoke of the patients who’d never truly left, their anguish and despair clinging to the peeling paint and stained linoleum like a second skin. I was a new hire, eager to prove myself, and perhaps a little too naive to fully appreciate the dread that permeated the very stone of the building.

My first few weeks were uneventful, filled with the mundane tasks of cleaning and restocking. But then came the nights. The nights were different. The silence wasn't just an absence of sound; it was a heavy, watchful presence. I remember one particular evening, I was in the west wing, a section notorious for its… activity. The air grew impossibly cold, a chill that seeped into my bones despite the summer heat outside. I could feel eyes on me, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. Then, I heard it. A faint, guttural moaning, like someone in profound pain. It seemed to emanate from the empty cells, echoing and amplifying in the oppressive stillness.

I tried to rationalize it, of course. Old buildings make noises. The wind howls. But this was different. It was too distinct, too human. And it wasn't alone. I started seeing things in my peripheral vision – fleeting shapes, shadows that moved too quickly, too fluidly to be natural. One night, I was cleaning the day room, a large, sterile space filled with mismatched chairs and a television that hadn't worked in years. I turned my back for a moment to gather some supplies, and when I turned back, one of the chairs, a heavy wooden monstrosity, was slowly rocking back and forth, as if someone had just risen from it. There was no draft, no tremor, nothing to explain its movement.